Nny Gets What He Wants
by Homicide.and.Suicide.777
Summary: Johnny knows exactly how he feels. He knows exactly what he wants people to be, and exactly why he cuts. When Nny goes out on another murderous spree, even those most understanding of him can manage only a moment of his hesitation before death. Despite what you might think, Nny isn't a very open-minded being. (Features many violent young deaths and masochism.) (One-shot.)


**Nny Gets What He Wants**

 **A/N: This story was** _ **interesting**_ **to write. We all have our reasons for cutting; for doing what we do. I have my own as well. To really dive into the emotion portrayed as 'Nny' and to understand** _ **his**_ **drive,** _ **his**_ **understandings,** _ **and his**_ **perspective on it…. well, it made for an interesting trip through the psyche.**

 **RATED MA: If you're reading a JtHM Fiction, you know what you're looking for. Blood, gore, disgusting actions, and all the like.**

 **Rights go to Jhonen Vasquez; the Goth King. (Bow down!)**

 **\ Johnny's POV/**

I may not have been able to pull off suicide more than once, but cutting was nothing new to me.

The definition of a Masochist: a person who is gratified by pain, degradation, etc., that is self-imposed or imposed by others.

This is how the world perceives us? The people who cut? Who impose upon ourselves the pain that we need? I personally don't allow others to inflict upon me; I don't even let them see it. They aren't worthy, they would hurt me for all the wrong reasons. I, on the other hand, know exactly why we do it.

It's different for us, for the different, less low-life people in the world who recognize that humans deserve pain. We don't always do it for a sense of being "gratified," as the definition says. Oh no, in fact, it's often for the opposite reason.

The definition of Gratify: to give pleasure to (a person or persons) by satisfying desires or humoring inclinations or feelings.

Some people, I imagine, are gratified by defiling their own skin. I find a bigger purpose. Most of us, I think, feel the hate. The hate that others feel towards us and we just can't help but believe we're worthless, as everyone tells us we are. So we cut, to punish ourselves for what we do. For who we are.

I'm also not one of those people. I don't punish myself for being worthless because _others_ say I'm worthless. No, I find my own flaws, without the 'assistance' of others.

I; I'm different. I cut to punish myself for being human. I found out on my own the flaws that I have. All of them link back to being of this evil species. To being an idiotic human who's worth no more than the sum of our ingredients. A child with five dollars could buy all the ingredients of a human at the store, minus the lust and hate. I find that if the sum of our atoms is no more than five dollars, and our souls are defied, evil essences of 'being,' then in the net of it all, we amount to nothing. And those of us with worse, darker souls come out to be worse than worthless. They're more like a disease. The evil, sick, backwards people of the world who want nothing but drug, sex, money…. Even the children have been polluted with such ideals.

That's why I have no problem with what I'm doing right now. I'm slaughtering the cattle. The club full of teenagers on teen night at my local dance hall. They rub against each other, dancing like they're completely controlled by hormones and a feverish desire. Many are as young as thirteen years old, but I know their minds are already corrupted by the evil of humanity. They can't escape it now.

I slide out my headphones and turn them up all the way. It efficiently drowns out the sound of the blaring music of the night club, and the scream of my first victim. I slice my blade along the black of her scalp, her blonde hair turning red. Next, a smile creeps onto my face as I gut a young boy, his intestines hanging out like noodles. I grab onto the strings and yank, making him fall to the floor, twitch, and stay still. The other teens still haven't noticed me.

I walk onto the dance floor and decapitate a dark haired boy, then slice the girl he was dancing with's throat before she can scream. They lay limp on the floor, trampled by the dancers. A few teens stumble on their bodies, then scream. More people begin to notice, and the cattle try to herd out of the club. They make it to the doors and stop. I've already welded them shut.

I slice a boy wearing a football letterman jacket, his head rolling across the floor and tripping a girl in high heels. She falls and is killed by the others as they trample over her in a panic.

I slice, grab, and kick more teens. I stomp the heel of my boot onto a teen's head, splattering their brains on the floor. I stab another in the heart, break the jaw of a girl and bang her on the head with the hilt of my blade. I grab the next one I see and hesitate for less than a second when I realize this one can't be even thirteen. She must be ten or eleven, but I bring my blade down onto her head anyways, leaving a deep gash and exposed brain tissue.

I continue, and it's not till five songs later that I've just about left all the teens on the floor, or leaning back in their chairs by the silver and red stained tables. I smile and walk to the bathroom, making sure I haven't missed any.

I neuter a boy in the bathroom stall and watch him bleed out on the floor. To the girl he was with, I shove my blade up her vagina, killing her after only moments. I drop them and move on to the next stall.

Most of the bathroom is empty, but I do find one more teen. She looks to be about sixteen years old, and she's asleep in the corner. I lean down by her and raise my blade, but stop when I see her wrist. It's littered with red lines.

I place my blades down beside me, slip off my headphones, and gently shake her awake. She opens her eyes and looks startled to see me, but she soon relaxes.

"Crazy make-up," she says. "Why such a bloody look?" I look down at myself and see all the blood.

"It's real," I say, "but that's not the point. I wanted to ask you; what are you doing here? Why aren't you out on the dance floor?" She looks down.

"Well, my friend Clarissa just dragged me to this stupid thing. I didn't even want to come." I nod. So far, she doesn't sound too bad.

"What's your name?" I ask.

"Mary," she says.

"And what about the cuts on your wrist? Why do you cut?" She looks down at them and blushes slightly, trying to hide them.

"I'm just… my mom, I guess. We don't get along well." I nod.

"So you're trying to do what, exactly?" I still don't understand where she's coming from.

"I don't know. To punish her? To make her notice? To feel better?" I consider this for a moment. I reach to my side and pick up my blade, then stab it through her chest. She stares at me with wide eyes. I pick up my other blade and set it on my wrist.

"That's not the right reason at all," I tell her. "We don't do it for attention. We don't do it to make others pay, or to feel better." She stares at me with wide eyes, blood pouring from her mouth with little coughs and gasps. She glances down at my wrist as I begin drawing my blade across it, over and over.

"We do it to remember. To punish ourselves for what we do wrong. To remember the pain, not to make it go away. So that we won't forget." I finish carving her name on my arm by a litter of other names. The names of people I've killed who didn't deserve to die. I pull my sleeve back down over them when I'm finished carving her name. "We do it for the pain. Not the pleasure. Because we deserve it. We're human." I pull my blade from her chest and her eyes roll back into her head. I sigh and stand, walking out of the bathroom. The neutered boy is still weakly scrambling on the floor in his blood as I walk by.

I place my headphones back over my ears and hum with the soothing tune. I exit the club and head for home, blood still dripping from my wrist.

 **A/N: And there we have it. Review if you want to.**


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